


All We Have Is Time

by glitteratiglue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A map of a complicated relationship.</p><p>(Five times Deanna and Will slept in the same bed, and another time they didn’t sleep at all).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Have Is Time

**Author's Note:**

> I just love five times fics *holds up hands*.

**1.**

A glance at the chronometer reveals the _Enterprise_ is two hours into gamma shift. Six hours have passed since the funeral, eighteen since Deanna felt the life slip from Tasha.

“I shouldn’t have let her die!” Will's hands are twisted in one of her opulent silk scarves, on the verge of pulling it apart. “I was her commanding officer; I should have known the risks.”

Deanna settles on the bed next to him, folding her legs underneath her body.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” she says kindly, resting a hand on his shoulder. Will is shaking, he’s not exactly crying, but he’s not exactly not, either; his face is turned away.

When they got to her door, she was on the verge of tears and he was exhausted; she didn't invite him in, but he stayed anyway. Their mental connection is rusty with lack of use, but she can still sense enough of Will to be able to feel how much he’s struggling. There's palpable isolation and loneliness beneath that brash confidence and thirst to prove himself; it made her let him into her quarters, when every fibre of her being was screaming that this was a terrible idea.

Apart from ship's business, they've barely talked since he came aboard - but he held her close at the funeral just the same, as if they weren't mired in the terrible awkwardness of trying to negotiate the new parameters of what they are to each other. For the night, it seems they've put that on hold; not much seems to matter when Tasha is dead and Deanna feels empty and turned inside out.

She settles against his back and wraps her arms round him, rests her head in that soft place where his neck and shoulders meet. Will cries a little and she rubs circles on his back, pretends she hasn’t even seen the tears.

What she can't admit is that the terror strangling her heart comes from more than losing Tasha; it's the fear she felt when the creature took him. She felt it absorb Will - skin and bone, right down to the core of his being. To feel him suffer that was worse for her than it would have been to feel him die.

They fall asleep right there on her bed, still wearing their uniforms and wrapped around each other.

Will doesn't sleep in his own quarters for a week. They don't mention it again.

 

**2.**

Deanna leans back against a pillar and closes her eyes, listening to the faint pulse of the _Krayton’s_ warp engines.

Endeavouring to be the gentleman, Will had made a show of averting his eyes while she exchanged her foil blanket for the purple sundress.

Deanna is shaking a little with the cold; her dress had been intended for the bright warmth of Betazed, and is proving to be decidedly inadequate in the face of the low temperatures of a Ferengi starship.

Wrapping her arms around herself tightly, she still can’t help but shiver. Will looks up, his expression sympathetic as he recalls the poor Betazoid tolerance for cold.

He crosses to her side just as the lights go out in their cell, squashes his bulk in next to her on the narrow bunk and pulls her against him. It must be night time on the vessel, meaning, unfortunately, that they'll have to wait until morning to try and find a way out of their prison.

He’s _so_ warm, and the touch such a comfort that she sighs a little. She senses a wistfulness in his thoughts - that this isn't the bed he thought they’d be sleeping in tonight (or not sleeping in, as the case may be) - but he discards it quickly in favour of being a good friend and keeping her warm.

She senses his smile, even if she can’t see it. “Better?”

Deanna trembles as cool air covers her bared shoulders, and presses against him.

“Closer.”

“Like this?” It’s whispered softly in her ear; there’s a flicker of amusement from Will that he swiftly tamps down on - but not quickly enough that she doesn't sense it.

“Better.” She reaches out with her mind, just enough to verify that her mother is safe (for now, at least); she can already feel Will passing into the untroubled sleep of a Starfleet officer used to snatching rest whenever he can. His mind is so peaceful in sleep, a refuge for her, and she can’t resist prodding at it, allowing some of her thoughts to mingle with his; she won’t concern herself with the ethical implications at this time. It’s enough to take her into a fitful, anxious sleep.

 

**3.**

Deanna comes awake gradually, her skin prickling in the humid, tropical air.

The hot weather meant they'd stripped down to their underwear without a thought; it's been too many years for them to be troubled by false modesty around each other.

They got to bed late last night after the shuttle ride from Caracas and far too many glasses of chicha at a local bar a stone's throw from Angel Falls. The owner had a son in Starfleet, and Will had spent the evening hotly debating the merits of the Treaty of Algeron with him.

Will had kept his hand linked in hers for the entire night; people assumed they were married and they hadn't bothered to correct that assumption. It's a game they often play on the ship, for fun. Last night was more than that for him - Deanna could feel it, but as usual, she chose not to address it. They went to sleep facing away from each other; a sensible precaution when they were both drunk and lonely.

Since they left the _Enterprise_ in dock at McKinley Station, Will has kept up an image of cheerfulness that's not far from his usual personality, but Deanna knows better - it's a thin veneer Will has hastily papered over the cracks of terror, helplessness and mixed feelings about having to give up a command he didn't even want in that situation.

Raising her head to look out the window, Deanna watches the sun rise through the thin muslin of the curtains, a gap in the fabric throwing light onto Will’s sleeping face. He doesn’t wake. There are dark circles under his eyes, but she’s reminded of how young he still is, the lines on his face etched by many cares softened with sleep and tenderness.

Suddenly, Will rolls over, a smile crinkling the corners of his sleep-heavy eyes and very much awake. “Morning, imzadi.”

Deanna smothers a laugh, getting up and reaching for the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. “Morning. I thought we might take a shuttle over the falls today.”

Will nods approvingly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Good idea. I seem to remember we never really saw them last time.”

“Didn't we?” She pauses, pretending to consider while knotting the robe belt around her waist. “Oh, of course. I seem to remember we spent the whole time in the hotel room.”

With a wounded noise, Will tugs the pillow over his head.

“Well, now I'm just hurt you didn't remember,” comes his muffled voice through the fabric. “My self esteem may never recover.”

“It's a good thing I'm a psychologist then, isn't it?” She laughs, opening the drawer to get out her hairbrush.

Will laughs softly, and pulls the pillow off his head.

She smiles fondly and turns back to the mirror, working the knots out of her hair with the brush. Will closes his eyes again, half-dozing while she goes through the rest of her morning routines.

Deanna is momentarily struck by the idea that this is an oddly comfortable little scene; one that they could re-enact every day, if they so wished.

She quickly puts it out of her mind; dwelling on nostalgic fantasies has never been her style.

 

**4.**

Deanna bites into delicate layers of pastry layered with chocolate cream, making a noise so unashamedly orgasmic that Will has to laugh.

“Better than sex?” His smile is gently teasing.

She laughs. “Speak for yourself. You _have_ to try this one, though.” She holds out the plate to him.

He smiles, taking a mille-feuille for himself from the plate she offers him.

Chocolate has never been Will's favourite, but Deanna knows he'll never turn it down when she offers.

They've just come from Keiko and Miles's wedding. After all the courses of sashimi, kelp broth (Miles's face was a picture when that course was served), and green tea with mochi sweets – all beautiful and delicate but somehow not quite as indulgent as she wanted – these crumbly, sweet, petits fours are hitting the spot just right. Leaning over Will to get another dessert from the platter, Deanna sighs contentedly, feeling pleasantly drunk and high on happy empathic emotions from all the wedding guests.

Going back to Will’s quarters to put on their pyjamas and try out the French pastry settings on the replicator has to be the best idea they've had in forever.  Weddings are hazy, emotional times, which is the the main reason they're here - in Will's own words, to stop him getting too drunk and having an encounter he'll probably regret in the morning.

“So, let me get this straight” - Deanna's eyes are dancing with amusement - “you, Will Riker, have completely given up one-night-stands? Hand on heart, swear on all the deities of Betazed?”

Casually brushing off crumbs off the comforter, Will gives her a sharp look. “Very funny. I just think for a change I should have a more meaningful relationship. Or at least maybe have a couple of dinners in Ten Forward before anyone's clothes start coming off.”

Deanna smiles, reaching for a pistachio macaron. “Suit yourself. Just leaves more for me. The new engineering transfer, Lieutenant Martinez is just lovely, isn't she?”

Will's frown is petulant. “Be fair, Deanna.” Draining his champagne glass with one sip, he takes her empty one and shifts along the bed to reach the replicator.

Her mouth's full of almondy goodness before she realises there's maybe something a little unusual about their relationship. They've been friends long enough and coached each other through enough bad breakups to not be awkward about each other's sex lives. Sometimes it occurs to Deanna that occasionally sleeping in each other's beds seems like a far more deviant act than anything else that could happen. Intimacy is just as important to Will as it is to her, and while they're happy to focus on their careers and keep relationships on the casual side for the most part, nights like this keep them both from pursuing inappropriate relationships out of loneliness.

Or maybe she's just afraid to admit how much she really needs Will.

Perhaps that's why she never tells anyone about these nights.

 

**5.**

The ground is moving beneath her feet - no, that's not right. She’s still, it’s just everything else that’s moving. There’s something warm beneath her head – Will’s thigh - and they’re sprawled on a ramshackle bed, her head in his lap.

“Will?” Her voice isn’t her own; it’s been replaced by something hoarse and scratchy.

He chuckles softly. “Still with me?”

Deanna squints into the gloom, seeing a dirt floor littered with empty liquor bottles and a sink in the corner piled high with plates. “What is this? Some kind of shack?”

“It’s Cochrane’s place. He very kindly let us use his bed.”

She snorts. “I doubt there’s anything kind about his motivations. He’s probably hoping you’ll leave so he can ask if he can join me instead.”

Even though she can’t see Will’s face, she can sense his amusement. “Cochrane passed out right after you did; he’s still on the floor next to the jukebox.”

"That's a relief," Deanna says, still trying not to move a muscle.

Will leans to the side and reaches for something. Seconds later, a glass of metallic-tasting water is held to her lips. She lifts her head enough to gulp some down, coughing a little when some of it goes down the wrong way.

“Don't worry, it's safe,” Will says in response to her unspoken question, setting the glass on the bedside table. “Just mineral deposits, Barclay was saying. They hadn’t quite perfected water filtration systems at this point in history.”

“Ugh, I am never drinking tequila again. Even if it _is_ a matter of temporal urgency.” Deanna wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, noticing the unpleasantly lingering taste of vomit at the back of her throat.

She dimly recalls being outside the bar, Will holding her hair back while she threw up all over his shoes; he was more okay with it then she thought he’d be - probably because he’s never going to let her live this down.

“Reminds me of my first week at the Academy,” Will says cheerfully, his hand resting on her shoulder. “An Andorian cadet challenged me to a drinking contest, and I was dumb enough to accept.”

“And what next?” Deanna finds herself interested, in spite of her thumping headache; Will always knows how to take the edge off any situation.

“Twelve shots later, I lost, and ended up passing out in a bush next to the quad on my back to the dorm. My commanding officer found me the next morning and got Boothby to turn the sprinklers on me. I still remember the lecture I got afterwards about appropriate Starfleet behaviour. I didn't hear a damn word of it, I was concentrating that hard on not throwing up all over him.”

He's never told her this story, and the obvious shame in his tone tells her that it's the truth, and not just something to make her feel better. It's a sweet gesture, and Deanna finds herself feeling uncharacteristically soft at the edges.

“My head hurts,” she says faintly, and the glass of water is brought to her lips again.

Will strokes gentle fingers through her hair, and the pounding in her skull lessens a little.

“Do you ever think we're just kidding ourselves?” he asks, and all the mirth has gone from his tone: he’s stone-cold serious.

“Will, I need to sleep. We’ll talk about it later.” Deanna can’t even think about what Will is saying, she’s so tired, already falling asleep in his lap.

They don’t talk about it later, but she doesn't forget.

 

**+1.**

Deanna is woken by a thud hitting the mattress next to her. She shifts on the bed, still warm and half-asleep, not opening her eyes.

“Mmm. What time is it?”

“Seven fifteen. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” is Will’s soft reply, but she can feel something hidden beneath the surface - a sense of mischief, like he _did_ intend to wake her.

“It’s okay, imzadi,” she murmurs sleepily. “I’m meant to be on alpha shift at eight, anyway.”

She hears him kick his boots off. The weight of the mattress dips, and there’s a soft press of lips against her cheek; she sighs at the soft scratch of his beard on her skin.

Deanna’s eyes snap open just in time to see Will lean in to kiss her, lazy and with a hint of his old confident swagger. His mouth is hot and insistent on hers, but she still breaks away, unable to resist teasing him a little.

“You need to get some sleep,” she tells him firmly – because Will has just finished a night shift on the _Titan’s_ bridge, and she knows how tired he gets after a spell of them – keeping her gaze resolute even when he starts kissing down her neck and her breathing hitches.

“Captain’s prerogative,” he says, already starting to tug the sheet away from her body. “We’ve got a few minutes before you need to be on the bridge. I’ll sleep then.”

Deanna smiles, already running her fingers through Will’s hair. She wraps a hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer, and he smiles as her wedding band catches on his skin. “I suppose it wouldn’t be my place to question that, not as a senior officer.”

Will grins and pulls the sheet away, the tenor of his thoughts already going in a direction decidedly unrelated to work.

Maybe it’s taken them a while to get here – fifteen years – but Deanna can never bring herself to regret those years they spent as the best of friends and partners.

After all, they have the rest of their lives together (and the next twenty minutes or so, if they're lucky).

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Andrew McMahon.


End file.
